


Invitations

by SleepingDragons



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Lambert in chapter 2, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Voyeurism, Winter At Kaer Morhen, i promise he'll be there, more smut in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingDragons/pseuds/SleepingDragons
Summary: This must be another wolf, one of Geralt’s brothers in arms, his comrade, one of his dearest friends.  Geralt pulls back ever so slightly, looking him over, before pulling the other Witcher into a deep kiss.Oh.Oh.Jaskier’s entire perspective shifts, like one of those drawings that look like one thing at first until suddenly they’re something else entirely.It made sense, actually.  Before Geralt had first told Jaskier he loved him, he simply said Jaskier was important to him.  It was said with the same sort of intensity that others put into declarations of love and loyalty, and Jaskier understood what Geralt had been saying.  It’s his own fault he hadn’t quite realized that Geralt had talked about Eskel and Lambert in the same way.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 12
Kudos: 211
Collections: BIKM Secret Santa Event 2020





	Invitations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squeakerblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeakerblue/gifts).



> This is my BIKM secret santa gift for Squeakerblue. I'm so sorry it's so late, this story seriously took on a life of its own and ended up being much longer than planned. I really hope you like it!

When Geralt first invites him to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier is ecstatic, and more than a little honored, if he's being honest. Excitement aside, the invitation is not without its caveats. The keep is at the top of a damn mountain, for one, and Jaskier is hardly a fan of the cold. They agree to leave earlier that year, cutting their time on the path short, so they could make the climb well before the weather turns. Privately, Jaskier's grateful for it. It makes the thought of braving Geralt’s family a little easier, knowing he'd still have time to turn around and head back down the trail if they don't like him, don’t want him there.

But Jaskier, really, really wants them to like them. Geralt had told him how important they were to him, that they’d always been there, and Jaskier wants so very much to be a part of that.

Even with the early start, the trail up the mountain is still bitterly cold, and Jaskier pulls his borrowed cloak tighter around himself as he pushes on. The trail is narrow and winding, more rock than dirt, and Jaskier thanks the gods he’s not trying to do this in the snow. Would be better in the summer, though.

“Any chance we could stop for a break?” he asks, panting for breath at a particularly steep slope.

Ahead of him, Geralt turns back to look at him. “Just a little further, around this next bend,” Geralt says. Well, alright then. Jaskier can make it that far at least. He turns the corner, mumbling under his breath, then stops in his tracks. Geralt smiles, a pleased and almost proud expression, but Jaskier’s too focused on the view to notice.

It’s breathtaking. From his vantage point, he can see the valley below, the last village they had stopped in, the slow and lazy river. Trees with leaves so bright they look aflame, broken up by the deep green of conifers. But further up the mountain, he can see the keep for the first time.

Kaer Morhen. It’s everything he thought it would be. Snippets of lyrics run through his head with no effort at all, ballads of a battered keep holding strong, protecting those who protect the rest of the world. He’ll never write them, would never betray their privacy like that, but the sentiment remains.

The sight sends new energy coursing through him, eases the aches in his feet and blocks out the cold. There it is, Geralt’s home. And for this winter at least, Jaskier’s as well. He’s almost there, so close he can practically feel the warmth of it’s fires.

He’s not, as it turns out, almost there. It’s nearly an entire day more of trekking up nearly vertical paths before he finds himself at the gates, near feeling like a bard shaped hunk of ice. He’s far less enchanted with the sight of the keep now, if he’s being honest. Losing the feeling in his toes can do that, as well as a bone deep exhaustion. He’s sorely tempted to just collapse on the ground where he stands, no matter how rocky and uncomfortable.

Geralt whistles, loud and piercing, and soon enough the gates began to creak open. They look grand enough to let out armies if they were open wide, but they come to a stop when there’s just room for a few men to walk side by side, or one man and his horse. They pass through, Geralt leading Roach and Jaskier pulling up the rear, and the gates creak shut behind them. They’re standing in an exterior courtyard, the keep proper still ahead of them. Hopefully, there’ll be a fire where he can thaw out.

There’s the creak of rusty hinges, and Jaskier turns to see the door to the watchtower open, and a veritable mountain steps out. He’s another Witcher, just as tall as Geralt, and even broader in the shoulders. Though the spiked pauldrons probably help a little. The Witcher crosses the courtyard with a speed belying his size and pulls Geralt into a giant bear hug. Jaskier’s fairly certain those arms would crush him if he were in Geralt’s place, but he can’t say that he would mind.

This must be another wolf, one of Geralt’s brothers in arms, his comrade, one of his dearest friends. Geralt pulls back ever so slightly, looking him over, before pulling the other Witcher into a deep kiss.

Oh. _Oh._ Jaskier’s entire perspective shifts, like one of those drawings that look like one thing at first until suddenly they’re something else entirely.

When the kiss breaks apart, they press their foreheads together, still holding onto each other. “You’re early,” the still unknown Witcher says. “Missed me that much, wolf?”

“You’re just as early as I am,” Geralt responds, then, softer, “Yeah. I did.” They stand like that for a while longer, before finally seeming to remember Jaskier is there.

“And who’s this?” The other Witcher asks, turning his honey gold gaze onto Jaskier.

Jaskier takes a step forward, though he’s not sure yet if he can speak, head still reeling slightly. Geralt pulls him to his side, arm around his shoulders. “This is Jaskier, my” In the slight pause between words, Jaskier’s mind fills in all the possible ways Geralt could end that sentence. Bard. Traveling companion. Friend. Lover. “partner,” Geralt finishes.

Jaskier nods. It fits. Geralt introduces the other Witcher as Eskel, his partner. Jaskier smiles at that, at being put on the same level as someone that clearly means so much to Geralt, even if Jaskier may have initially misunderstood just what sort of relationship Geralt has with his fellow wolves.

It made sense, actually. In the early days of their relationship, Jaskier had told Geralt that monogamy had never really worked for him, no matter how much he cared for the other person. He wasn’t sure how Geralt would react, some people didn’t mind, others did. Geralt not only didn’t mind, he felt the same way. So they grew even closer, neither caring what the other did when they weren’t together. Jaskier fell in love first, and he told Geralt with no hesitation. It took Geralt a long time before he was able to say it back. Instead, he simply said Jaskier was important to him. It was said with the same sort of intensity that others put into declarations of love and loyalty, and Jaskier understood what Geralt had been saying. It’s his own fault he hadn’t quite realized that Geralt had talked about Eskel and Lambert in the same way.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jaskier says, holding out his hand to Eskel. He takes it, his large hand practically enveloping Jaskier’s in warmth.

“You’re freezing,” Eskel says, brows coming together in concern.

“Yes, well, mountains and all that.”

Eskel ushers them into the keep, Geralt muttering something about mother hens. To Jaskier’s immense relief, there’s a large fireplace with a roaring fire. Spread out on the stone in front of the hearth is a pile of furs, and Jaskier drops down on top of them with a happy little sigh. Geralt sits next to him, immediately tugging off his boots and shoving his feet near the fire to warm them. Jaskier follows suit, wiggling his toes in bliss.

"I’ll go take care of Roach,” Eskel says, and Geralt does little more than hum, sprawled out in front of the fire.

In the time it takes Eskel to settle Roach in the stables that are presumably somewhere within the walls of the keep, Jaskier and Geralt gravitate to each other. He ends up resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder, their legs tangled up together, a thick fur blanket draped over them. It’s definitely warmer than it was out on the trail, but Jaskier’s still a little cold. Next year, maybe he can get Geralt and his family to winter in Oxenfurt, where it’s _warm._ Or anywhere, as long as it’s not the top of a mountain.

When Eskel returns, Geralt reaches out from under the fur, beckoning him over. Eskel nods and plops down next to Geralt. They shift, trying to get comfortable, and the furs shift, temporarily uncovering Jaskier and letting some of his precious heat out. He hisses at the cold and scrambles to pull the furs back.

“I’ve got an idea,” Eskel says, and before Jaskier can ask what it is, he and Geralt are already moving. Somehow, Jaskier ends up sandwiched between the two Witchers, both radiating heat. Between them and the fire, Jaskier’s feeling quite toasty, even as he can still hear the wind howling outside.

And it’s not as if Jaskier _minds_ being squished between them, if he’s being honest. He’s entertained more than a few fantasies of there being two Geralts, ever since that one encounter with a doppler, and it seems to him this is just as good. They’re not completely identical, of course. Eskel’s a fair amount broader in the shoulders, making even Geralt seem small. Then of course there’s the hair, and the scars, but looking passed that, they look the spitting image of each other. And well, he’s always thought Geralt was gorgeous. The scars cutting from Eskel’s temple and through the corner of his mouth don’t detract from their shared good looks. If anything, they add to them.

So suffice to say, a part of Jaskier wants to see if they could turn this V into a triad. Or at the very least, a very fun night. However, that’s the part of him that frequently leads to Jaskier having to crawl out of windows lacking a few articles of clothing, and avoiding that town for years. It never ends well. And Jaskier can’t afford to mess this up. It could ruin his relationship with Geralt, and even threaten Geralt’s relationship with Eskel. So no matter how gorgeous Eskel might be, he’ll have to keep himself under control.

“Are your hands still cold?” Eskel asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Jaskier says. Truly, he’s warm as can be.

“Let me see,” Geralt says, reaching out and grabbing his hand. Jaskier has to admit, Geralt’s is a lot warmer than his is. It only takes a moment of holding his hand before Geralt’s brows furrow in concern. “Eskel, feel this.”

Eskel takes his other hand, tuts over it. Still too cold. Eskel takes his hand in both of his own, massaging at Jaskier’s fingers to warm them up. On his other side, Geralt does the same.

Controlling himself is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

“And when did you lot get in?,” a voice from behind them says. Jaskier jumps, but the Witchers must have already noticed him. The speaker is an older Witcher, old enough that he looks to be in his sixties. Given Geralt’s around eighty and only looks to be mid thirties, Jaskier’s left wondering just how old this mystery Witcher is.

“Just now,” Geralt says. Eskel chimes in that he’d arrived a few hours ago, while the older Witcher had been out hunting.

“Early this year.” When Eskel and Geralt don’t comment, he turns to Jaskier. “Take it you’re the bard Geralt’s been talking about?” Geralt ducks his head to hide his face, but Jaskier can see that his ears have gone red with embarrassment.

“The very same. Jaskier the travelling bard, at your service,” Jaskier says, filing away the information that Geralt had been talking about him away for later teasing.

He introduces himself with a gruff “Vesemir” before fixing a glare on Geralt. “Didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest, pup.”

“I may have forgotten to mention it,” Geralt admits.

“Just lucky we’ve been betting on you bringing that bard for years now, and brought extra supplies.”

Jaskier sputters. “You’ve been _betting_ on us?” It was one thing for Geralt to tell his family about him, it was entirely another thing for them to be taking bets as to when they’d get together. Never mind that Essie and Priscilla had made their own bets sometime after the third ballad.

Vesemir nods. “Speaking of, Eskel, you owe me 20 crowns.”

Eskel groans. “Seriously?”

“Unless you want to work it off on laundry duty for the winter?”

Eskel shudders. “No, thank you.”

“Be glad you’re not Lambert,” Geralt says, laughing. “He bet 40.”

They spend much of their time working to maintain the keep, dragging themselves out of bed at dawn and working into the early evening. It’s rebuilding walls brick by brick, collecting firewood, and hunting. Jaskier isn’t left out; everyone has to earn their keep. They set him on mending and laundry, kitchen duty and some cleaning. It’s not too taxing but it’s enough to keep him busy.

Jaskier’s doing some mending in the courtyard, near the fire. He’d be more comfortable inside, but here he can watch Geralt and Eskel work on the outer wall. Whenever he can, Jaskier tries to be close to them.

In the safety of the keep, Jaskier gets to see a version of Geralt he rarely sees on the path. He smiles more easily, laughs loudly and makes jokes of his own. Here, it’s like the years of hardship on the Path fall away, and with them the defenses Geralt’s been forced to build up to protect himself.

Jaskier knows he mostly has Eskel to thank for that. They fit together like puzzle pieces, part of the same set. Jaskier’s proud of the little shelter he can provide for Geralt on the path, making things easier for him with his music, teasing out small smiles, but he’ll be forever grateful to Eskel for letting him have this in the winter, and to Geralt for bringing him into it.

It’s obvious how close the two of them are. They move around each other with an ease that speaks of long years of companionship, both in simple spars for training and in everyday life. There’s an easy banter, teasing and hinting at stories Jaskier has no idea about. Then there’s the touching. Little touches, brushing shoulders in the hall, a hand on the other’s knee when they sit down to eat, gentle kisses and soft voices. There’s even more wrestling, play fighting in the dining hall because someone cheated at Gwent, or told a terrible joke.

Jaskier doesn’t begrudge them the affection. He can’t imagine what it must be like to be apart for nearly the whole year, certainly not in a world that treats them so poorly. At least Geralt has Jaskier to soften the harshness of the world; Eskel has no one. So he can’t complain when Geralt splits his time between the two of them, between their beds, in fact he encourages it.

He just maybe wishes they weren’t quite so obvious about it. Jaskier finds them kissing in the hallways, passionate embraces that leave Jaskier quickly backing out with a red hot face. If that was all, just Geralt pinned against the wall with Eskel’s hand in his hair, pulling his head to the side so he can mouth at his neck, leaving marks that stay for hours, that would be one thing. Jaskier could handle that.

But sweet Melitele, it is not.

He decides to take a trip to the stables, to visit Roach and that adorable little goat, only to find Geralt on his knees in front of Eskel, lips stretched around a thick cock that made Jaskier’s own mouth water. Eskel’s head is thrown back in pleasure, amber eyes closed, but Jaskier’s startled little squeak when he sees them has him snapping his eyes open and meeting Jaskier’s stare. Jaskier mouths “sorry” and practically flees the stables, moving as fast as his suddenly far too tight trousers would allow.

Later, Jaskier stops in his tracks outside the armory, listening to the bitten off whimpers and quiet little moans coming from behind the half closed door. He’d recognize the sounds Geralt makes when he’s being fingered open anywhere. He’d heard them last night in fact, Geralt clamping tight around his fingers, while his other hand slowly stroked him off. But the breathy “Eskel…” is a new sound, and Jaskier wants to keep hearing it, despite his better judgement.

It starts small, with Jaskier only walking in on them occasionally. But the longer he stays, the more he comes to know Eskel, the more often it happens, and the more he sees. He supposes it makes sense, that they’re more comfortable around him as time goes on. But it definitely feels like the more he gets along with Eskel, the worse things get. It’s almost like they _want_ him to see them.

Jaskier finds them in a hundred more positions, in seemingly every place in the entire keep, but the absolute worst has got to be what he privately calls “the library incident.” You see, Kaer Morhen has a fantastic library. Most of its bestiaries and old Witcher journals, but there’s also a fair amount of novels that hold Jaskier’s interest for many an evening. One such novel was the first of a trilogy and it ended on such a cliffhanger that Jaskier had left his room in a huff, rushing down the hall to the library to find the next installment, completely forgetting he shares the keep with a pair of shameless exhibitionists.

The end result is Jaskier barging into the library to see Geralt bent over a table, Eskel draped over his back, hips moving in powerful thrusts that push Geralt against the table so hard it scrapes across the floor. Geralt grips the table tight with white knuckles, each thrust forcing a moan or a whimper out of him.

Jaskier feels frozen in place, staring at them. He knows he should leave, back out with an apology and get that damned book later, but he can’t. Somehow, they haven’t noticed him yet. Geralt’s eyes are closed, lost in pleasure, and Eskel’s attention is focused entirely on him. Jaskier could slip out, unnoticed, or he could stay.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Eskel’s eyes open and land on Jaskier. Oh, fuck. He’s caught. Instead of being angry, Eskel just eyes him up and down, lingering on the obvious effects the scene is having on Jaskier’s traitorous body. The whole time, keeping up the steady thrusts into Geralt’s trembling body.

When Jaskier doesn’t leave, stammering apologies as he usually does, Eskel raises an eyebrow, then releases the grip he had on Geralt’s hip--Jaskier can see fingerprint bruises on his pale skin--and drags it down out of sight, beneath the table. But from the way he’s moving his arm, Jaskier can tell he’s stroking Geralt’s cock, keeping pace with his own thrusts. Geralt lets out a groan and bucks his hips into the feeling, then starts chanting Eskel’s name, over and over. “Eskel, Eskel, Eskel…” The sound goes straight to Jaskier’s cock, and he decides he wouldn’t mind hearing it forever.

Eskel, apparently, has other plans. He leans just a little further forward, pushing that much deeper into Geralt, until his mouth is at Geralt’s ear. He whispers something Jaskier can’t make out, but it has Geralt’s eyes open wide and staring at Jaskier. Eyes wide with shock but still clouded with pleasure. For a split second, Jaskier panics, he’s been caught, but then Geralt gasps out his name, voice wrecked with pleasure, and Jaskier realizes with a jolt that Geralt’s coming. He’s coming around Eskel’s thick cock while he’s watching Jaskier and crying out his name. It’s nearly more than Jaskier can take, and it’s certainly more than _Eskel_ can take, because his hips jump and his thrusts lose rhythm before pushing deep inside and shuddering out a climax of his own. He keeps his eyes on Jaskier until the last possible second, when they close in pleasure and he growls out a name that sounds suspiciously like Jaskier’s.

The shock of that still racing through his system, Jaskier flees the library, retreating back into the room he shares with Geralt. Finally alone, he hurriedly unlaces the front of his trousers and takes out his cock, stroking it with a tight grip. He’s so close to the edge already it’s a wonder he didn’t finish in his trousers like a teenager back in the library. Panting, he chases that high, Geralt and Eskel’s groans echoing in his ears. He’s not sure if he’s fantasizing about being the one to fuck Geralt, gods all know he loves doing that, or if he wants to be the one Eskel’s ploughing with that giant cock of his. More likely, he wants to be between them, fucking into Geralt while Eskel fucks into him, surrounded by incredible pleasure on all sides. Or maybe Eskel and Geralt both taking him, stretching him out until he’s sobbing on their cocks? Or maybe Jaskier could have ducked down beneath that table Geralt was bent over, taken him into his mouth and coaxed more and more noises out of Geralt, worked with Eskel to absolutely _wreck_ him. The fantasies mix in his mind until it’s all one jumbled mess of wanton pleasure, and he tips over the edge with a muffled groan.

So it would not be an exaggeration to say there’s some _tension_ in the air, when Eskel joins them in the hot springs, at least on Jaskier’s side. Maybe Eskel didn’t see anything strange about fucking their shared partner literally everywhere, where Jaskier could walk in on them at any moment.

They’d been soaking for a while, preferring to relax into the heat for a few minutes before actually washing themselves. And oh, it was a glorious heat, Jaskier’s never felt anything like it. Even an Igni heated bath--Thank you, Geralt-- couldn’t compare. Jaskier was just about to suggest Geralt let him wash his hair when Eskel walked into the heated cavern, a towel wrapped around his waist.

Jaskier stares. He tries not to, really he does, but he stares. Eskel's incredible. He was handsome enough when Jaskier first saw him, still in his armor in the courtyard, with a kind face scars couldn't diminish, but sweet Melitele, his _body_. Hard muscles capable of pulling trees from the very ground, under a soft layer of fat that Jaskier wants to sink his teeth into. Strong arms with biceps the size of Jaskier's head. Dark chest hair that leads down to an incredibly enticing treasure trail, disappearing down under a laughably small towel.

Eskel drops the towel, and Jaskier can't help the needy little gasping sound he lets out. He quickly turns away, blaming the redness of his face on the springs. The water moves when Eskel gets in, and he lets out a groan of pleasure when the heat hits him. The echo of the sound merges with every sexy moan and groan he's ever heard from Eskel, until Jaskier realizes he's hard as a rock beneath the water. And can anyone blame him? Eskel is _hung_ , the beast between his legs looks like it would be a better fit for a dragon.

Jaskier wants. Oh, Jaskier wants. He wants to hold those plush thighs, press kisses over the tip of that godly cock, see how much he can fit in his mouth. See how much he can fit in his _ass_. Gods, Eskel would _wreck_ him, and Jaskier would thank him for it.

But he can't have him. He doesn't mind that Geralt loves them both, and alright maybe Jaskier's falling a bit for Eskel too. But it never ends well. He puts his prick where it doesn't belong and things get ruined. He can't risk ruining his relationship with Geralt, or Geralt's relationship with Eskel.

It would be one thing if it was just attraction. It would be easier to ignore, and probably less of a mess if he gave in. But it’s not. Eskel’s kind, the sort of kind that keeps going even when the world rejects him. The sort of kind that’s so rare and so incredibly precious. He’s funny, smart, an amazing storyteller, a great audience when Jaskier performs. He’s reliable, a steady rock in a raging storm and fuck Jaskier might be in love actually.

Geralt presses the bottle of shampoo into Jaskier's hand, pulling him out of his thoughts. He tilts his head, a silent request for Jaskier to help him with his hair. Right. He can do that.

He sets aside the bottle for now, he still has a bit of prep work to do. Carefully, Jaskier set about working the tangles out of Geralt's hair, starting from the tips and working his way up. Once the bone comb can glide through his hair with ease, Jaskier sets about shampooing.

When he uncorks the bottle, the faint herbal smell mixes with the minerals of the springs, and Geralt sighs, sinking down further into the water. Jaskier's quite proud of this mix. Most perfumes and soaps were too strong for Witcher senses. Jaskier had been greatly offended when Geralt would wrinkle his nose over his new and very expensive perfumes, until Geralt had explained. So it became his mission to find a scent that was both pleasing to Jaskier and not too overwhelming for Geralt. He had scoured shop after shop, searching every apothecary he could find, before eventually giving up on already manufactured scents. His friends had looked on in amused confusion when Jaskier raided the chemistry department of Oxenfurt and made his own soaps and perfumes. But it worked! The shampoo he uses now was of his own making, specifically designed with Geralt in mind. Idly, Jaskier wonders if Eskel would like it too.

With the shampoo this time, he starts again, this time from the roots down, working the shampoo through every strand of silver white hair. It's so much nicer to be washing hair that's already mostly clean, instead of covered in selkimore guts. He rubs gentle but firm circles over Geralt's scalp, and Geralt moans quietly, tension draining out of his body. For that reaction, Jaskier would put up with all the monster guts in the world.

When he reaches for the pitcher to rinse Geralt's hair, Jaskier looks up to see Eskel studying them intently. Has no one ever...? Jaskier might have offered, but Eskel had already washed his much shorter hair clean with business like scrubbing. Shrugging, Jaskier returns to his task, this time with conditioner. By the time he's done, Geralt's practically melted into the water, near asleep, leaning against the smooth stone walls of the spring. Jaskier ducks his head under the water to wet it, then reaches for the shampoo bottle once more.

"Has he ever returned the favor?" Eskel asks, breaking the peaceful quiet.

"Once or twice," Jaskier answers honestly. "Usually I just take care of myself."

Eskel nods, and for a moment Jaskier thinks that will be all, then "May I?" It takes Jaskier's brain an embarrassingly long time to process that Eskel's asking if he could wash Jaskier's hair. By the time he realizes, Eskel's taken his silence as a no and started to move away, something that could only be called disappointment on his face.

"Wait!" Jaskier says, then for once at a loss for words, offers him the bottle of shampoo.

Eskel brightens and takes it, motioning Jaskier closer. Somehow, they end up positioned with Jaskier sitting between Eskel's legs, powerful thighs bracketing his own. He could lean back against Eskel's chest if he wanted, but he sits straight while Eskel pours shampoo into his palm. His big hands seem like they should be clumsy and rough, but they move with incredible gentleness through his hair, like Jaskier was a treasure he was afraid of breaking. Short nails scratch at his scalp, sending tingling pleasure down his neck and across his shoulders. Jaskier angles his head to the side a little, guiding Eskel's hands to where it would feel the best, and

Eskel obliges easily, paying special attention to anywhere that makes Jaskier shudder or sigh. Then those big hands move down his neck to his shoulders, using the slick of excess conditioner like massage oil. Strong but gentle pressure, working out every knot and bit of tension Jaskier didn't even know he carried. He feels like his muscles have turned to mush, like he's liable to just melt into the water. Distantly he registers that he's leaned back on Eskel's chest, and hopes he doesn't mind.

Two weeks from the library incident, three days from the hot springs incident, Jaskier heads up to Geralt and his shared room. He's pretty sure it's Eskel's night, so he reminds himself to stoke up the fire a little higher before going to sleep, without the warmth of Geralt holding him, he'll need the fire to last a little longer. So when he opens the door, he expects to be greeted with an empty bed.

Instead, he finds Geralt and Eskel, curled around each other, Geralt's face tucked into Eskel's chest. They both look up when he enters, golden eyes stopping him in his tracks.

"Shit, sorry, you know Geralt, in Oxenfurt we had this lovely little tradition of tying a sock to the door knob to warn roommates we were having company, I really think you should try it." He's babbling, mouth running without his permission while he tries to back out of the room.

"Wait!" They both call, sitting up in the bed. The furs fall away, revealing them in their night shirts. Huh. Not naked then?

Jaskier stops in the doorway, confusion making his brows furrow. "Yes?"

It's Geralt who speaks, slow and halting, like the words are difficult. "I... I want you to stay."

" _We_ want you to stay," Eskel adds, voice gentle.

"What?" Jaskier can't quite process what he's hearing. This whole time he's been trying to stay out of it, and now this?

"I want you both," Geralt says, then clearly realizes he already has them both, and corrects himself. "Together. I want you both, together, all three of us."

"Only if you want to, we won't force you," Eskel says, as if Jaskier thought for a single moment that he would. "But, I think you do want to. I think... you want me just as much as you want him." He looks at Jaskier, somehow hopeful and afraid at the same time. "If I'm wrong, just tell me and I'll go, but I don't think I am."

"You're... You're not wrong," Jaskier admits.

They light up, practically beaming at him, and hold out their arms, inviting Jaskier in. He crosses the room in an instant, climbing onto the bed and between them. They wrap their arms around him, and he sighs, surrounded by their warmth.

Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s neck, then mouths the words against his skin. “Thank you.” And Jaskier hears what he doesn’t say. _For understanding. For loving me. For letting me love him. For loving him, too._

Jaskier twists in their grasp, takes Geralt’s face into his hands and makes him meet his eyes. “You make it easy,” he says, then kisses him, soft and gentle. Then he turns to Eskel. “And you. Thank you.” Jaskier leans forward and covers his lips with his own, pouring all the force of his emotions, his gratitude and love into the kiss. When he pulls back, Eskel looks dazed, amber eyes glassy.

“For what?”

“For loving him.” Jaskier punctuates each statement with a kiss. One to his left cheek. “For taking care of him when I’m not there.” His forehead. “For letting me in.” A lingering kiss right on the worst of his scars.

“I could say the same to you,” Eskel says, ducking his head. Jaskier puts a hand under his chin, tilting his face back up and kissing him once more.

“I know.”


End file.
